Des Ailes Dorées (Of Gilded Wings)
by Paper Lilly Webs
Summary: -Karkat Vantas has always had wings, and he used to think they were lucky, until he was captured and put on display as an animal. Now, all he can think is "It was all my fault."- Multichap, slightly SolKat fic. T for light swearing, Friendship because I haven't decided if Romance yet. Second-person present-tense. Terrible summary. Cover pic is slightly wrong; KK's wings are white
1. When They Think of Wings

**NOTE**: Karkat is twenty-one, and Sollux is twenty-three, just to clarify.

* * *

It's funny. When most think of white wings, they think of angels, of rapture and heaven and bliss. They think of the dove, of its peace-bringing olive branch.

They think of God, of salvation, of beauty.

You think of leather jesses. You think of black baggy clothing and imprisonment. You think of stale water and putrid food. You think of a million pairs of eyes always looking at you, like you're some kind of animal in a zoo.

It's funny, because when they think of wings, they think of flying and freedom.

You think of cages and the dark stone ceiling, always blocking the sky.

* * *

You remember your childhood well. _C'était magnifique._

You remember your mother, curly blonde hair piled high on her head, radiant smile always on her lips. You remember your father, brown beard, husky voice and booming laugh. You remember your brother, far-too-curly black hair and wide, lazy grins.

You remember yourself as well; you were so different then. Back then, you had fair hair and a light laugh. Your wings were small, small enough to hide under a leather jacket. You thought wings were exciting then, thought they'd bring you luck.

Instead, all they've brought you is fire, and blood, and cages. Cage, after cage, after cage, after cage. House, after house, after house, after house. Owner, after owner, after owner, after owner. Lie, after lie, after lie, after lie. _Diables, chacun d'entre eux._

Then you landed here, in the middle of a freaks menagerie. Had you known what your wings would do, what they would cause, you would have cut them off. No, you would have _ripped_ them off.

You tell yourself this everyday, every minute, every _second_ you find yourself trapped behind gold bars. You tell yourself this once for every blue eye that looks your way. You scream it at yourself for every brown eye. You ignore green eyes because they remind you of your mother. Any colors ranging between those get a bark of annoyance and nothing more.

You catalogue every iris that casts its glance in your direction, and berate yourself according to its pigment. You have nothing else to do, really, except wallow in self-hatred, but that grew boring ten years ago.

So you continue to raise self-loathing like a drunkard's beer tab, reminding yourself over and over again that _this is all your fault_. Had you kept your head down, been smarter, been more careful, you wouldn't be locked in a cage in the Baroness's private animal collection.

Ha, private indeed. Not so private now that she has a wonderful mutant to show off to the world. Now that she has something to rake in the dough.

_Vous n'êtes rien, mais une bête de les._

* * *

May Twelfth, year sixteen into your stint as a showbeast. It is ten o'clock on this rather sunny morning, but you cannot see the sunlight. All the windows around you are shut tight, and your only illumination is the white lamps lining the walls at six-foot intervals.

There was an influx of visitors today, as that certain country's ambassador had come to Skaia, bringing tourists in his wake like a wave. Over the course of the five hours since your exhibit has been open, you have counted six-hundred and eighty-seven pairs of blue eyes, ninety-six hazel, eight-hundred and eleven green, and one thousand nine-hundred and thirteen brown, censuring yourself for every one of them.

When many of the visitors leave for lunch, you sigh gratefully, letting your eyes flicker across the near-empty hall you're in. Your giant, no, _humongous_ birdcage is settled in the center of the room, fifty feet away from every wall except the one behind you, which is still rather far away. Your only form of cover within the cage is the giant nest in the center, and a brass perch about fifty feet above aforementioned nest. It's a pain to fly up there, and it's even more uncomfortable to stay, so you tend to stick to the nest. Today, however, there are only three people in the room right now, including the two guards, so you are actually quite content to lean against your closely-crafted bars, letting your wings out to stretch them.

The one guest still here ooh's at the sight of your unfurled feathered mutations, and you even see one of the guards looking in interest. You tend to keep your wings folded in the presence of others because, let's face it, you're embarrassed and you don't really like people looking at them. But right now, you're rather tired and really couldn't care less what the others did, as long as they didn't touch your wings. Hells-to-the-no. Your wings are extensions of your body, and only _you_ are allowed to touch them. And only for grooming purposes, because despite the fact that you've had them your entire life, they still kind of freak you out.

You save your preening for after hours and you fly up to the perch to do so, because not only do you not want your nightly-guard watching creepily, but your wings are, well, rather large. _Aussi large que les portes du ciel,_ as wide as heaven's gates, and hang down clear to the floor while you're sitting on the perch.  
It is, however, _not_ after hours, so you leave your pure-white wings alone and set yourself to a small nap before the afternoon rush.

* * *

Your nap is ended all too soon and you quickly fold your wings as new visitors flood in, bending the kink out of your back before settling back against the bars.

You should really just call it mesh, as the rods of gold-plated steel cross each other close enough together that you can only stick a hand through the bars, and just barely. Despite that fact, the Baroness had ordered a twenty-foot circumference of velvet roping to ring your cage, and you're actually a little appreciative of this, because, while it keeps you from reaching out, it keeps the people from reaching _in_. You might have killed yourself by now if people could reach in. Despite being a mutant, you still deserve _some_ rights, right? You are not an animal with no emotion. _Vous n'êtes pas un animal sans émotion._

Your thoughts are interrupted by a child crying, and you look out at the audience, finding the small girl wailing near the front, tugging on her mother's hand. In the child's fit, her round glasses nearly slip off her speckled nose, then she sees you looking at her and immediately stops crying.

You hold her gaze calmly, her green eyes widening. Ah, green eyes. They always bring back memories of your mother, making you shift uncomfortably in the black, coarsely made fabric of your clothing.

The little girl still hasn't looked away, hopping from one foot to the other nervously, so you throw her a slight smile, something you do not do often. Actually, judging by how taught your cheeks are while treating the child, it seems you haven't smiled in a rather long time.

The girl timidly throws you a grin, before turning to follow her mother out of the hall. You sigh, and start counting eye colors again, distaste rumbling in the pit of your stomach. Or it could just be the slightly-molding bread you were forced to eat last night.

As you reach over two thousand brown pairs of irises, you begin to wonder what you would do if you were encounter gold eyes. How would you choose to scold yourself? Would you ignore them like you ignore the green ones, or would categorize under "other"?

You spend the rest of the day thinking about this, and almost forget to preen before you fall asleep.

* * *

When you awake the next morning, you groan. Not only is five o'clock a terrible time to open your exhibit, but your jesses are getting old, and are rubbing painfully into the skin around your ankles. Seriously, they think you're _bird_ enough to chain you back with leather straps.

Actually, it works very well, and you're just thankful they don't hood you.

You slowly rise from the nest provided to you and rub the sleep from your eyes. That having been done, you pad over to the furthest point in the cage away from where the guests can be, and find your breakfast without surprise. They always put it in while you're asleep, so you don't start attacking them (Yeah, who knew a ten year-old with wings could take down a six-foot soldier with his bare hands?)

You sigh and settle down onto the cold metal floor and scoop up the tray of a few slices of ham and a large trencher of soup. There's also a large tin cup of water, and you always save that for last, because that's all you get until supper after your exhibit closes.

As you are digging into your rather meager meal, you hear the door to the hall open, marking the entrance of a guard. Normally, you wouldn't care, but as you spy dirty-blonde locks, you are immediately interested. Who is he? _Qui est-il?_ You've never seen him before. _Vous ne l'avez jamais vu auparavant._

He goes about his business, making sure all the lamps are lit and full, all the velvet ropes secure and their posts unmovable, and you watch him. He's lanky, extremely so, and would tower above you if you were to stand side-by-side. His uniform looks a little small, and you doubt they have any that will fit his long legs.

But you don't care about that. You want to see his _eyes_. You want to see what's hidden behind the strange glasses he wears. He never connects your gazes, and you begin to suspect he's purposefully doing so. Geeze, what did you ever do to him?

You shift your wings annoyedly, your white feathers making a faint ruffling sound. You see the guard glance over at you, and you send him a glare. Hah, serves him right.

He visibly winces and returns to tightening the ropes surrounding you. You follow his movements as you slowly chew your breakfast. He seems really jumpy, like he's nervous, and hell, he probably is. How often do you get assigned to guard a human with wings? He probably didn't even know what he was getting into when he applied for this job.

You shift again, and your elbow bumps your cup, knocking it out of your cage and sending it flying across the floor. You yelp as you're hit with the splashing water, and your jesses are accidentally yanked rather painfully.

"What'th going on over there?" You look up in surprise at the lisp and search for its owner, eyes falling on your dirty-blonde guard, who is quickly striding towards you, his nightstick out and ready.

You can't help but snerk as he bends over to pick up your water cup. "Your lisp negates all the authority your uniform implies, dude." Damn, he looks like he's seen a ghost. He stands stalk-still, knuckles white around the cup.

"Y-You... You can talk?" You snort. Jesus Christ, what did he think you were? An animal?

"'Course I can talk." Though, granted, you haven't spoken in a while; your voice is a little hoarser than usual.

His eyebrows kit together. "H-How?" Whoops. There goes your interest in this entire conversation.

"By using my mouth, genius. You, however, seem to be talking out of your ass." You relish in his surprise, quite happy to let him get a taste of your vulgar language. It's always so amusing to see a guard's face when you start throwing around swears, because they not only think you're uneducated, but because of how _normal_ you seem. "What, they didn't tell you during orientation?" He still doesn't respond, and you sigh, shaking your head. "Hey, can you refill that?" You gesture to the cup in his hands. "I haven't even had any yet."

"U-Uh, yeah. Sure." He shakes himself, walking over to the water fountain closest to your cage; there are twelve in here, and the closest is about twenty feet away, so you watch the guard as he walks there and back, smirking. This is going to be fun. _Cela va être amusant._

He passes the cup to you with some difficulty, and the skin where his fingers brushes your hand is left rather tingly. As to why, you cannot fathom. As soon as you have a grip on the cup, he pulls back like he was burned, and avoids your eyes again, shuffling his feet. You raise an eyebrow and raise the cup to your lips, taking in the guard's features. Said features are rather pointed, but they're far from unattractive. If it weren't for the circles under his eyes and the scar on the right side of his jaw, some might even call him handsome.

For a split second, his gaze meets yours, but it passes so quickly, you wonder if it had happened at all. Ooh, he really _is_ interesting.

You smile sincerely, cocking your head to see him better through your bars. "Karkat." He jerks his head up in surprise. You keep your slight smile on to reassure him. "My name is Karkat." He just keeps staring at you like you had spoken gibberish. "And _your_ name is...?"

"O-Oh, um, Thollux. Thollux Captor." A laugh squeezes itself from your chest before you can stop it as you pause mid-sip.

"Well then, 'Thollux'. It's very nice to meet you." You continue to laugh at his disgruntled expression, and just like that, you make your first friend in sixteen long years.

How magnificent. _Quel magnifique._

* * *

**A/N**: Welcome to Des Ailes Dorées, my newest edition to the wonderful fandom of Homestuck.

I have a couple things for you readers to ponder.  
First: "Can I actually pull off second-person?" I haven't really ever written in it, so is it "Yeah, you can pull it off", or is it "NUUUU! GO BACK TO FIRST PERSON!"?  
Second: "Should I even continue writing this in the first place?" I dunno how I feel about this as of yet, so you guys get to decide.  
Third: "SolKat?" I'm kind of already heading in that direction, but I want your guys' opinion as well.  
Fourth: Are the French bits confusing? It was a kind of spur of the moment thing, and I'm just wondering if they even fit the story well enough to keep them. Your thoughts?  
Fifth: Am I even getting the French right? I've never studied it, so...

I explained most of the French bits, but left some English translations out, so here they are in order of appearance:

**C'était magnifique - It was magnificent.**

**Diables, chacun d'entre eux - Devils, all of them.**

**Vous n'êtes rien, mais une bête de les - You're nothing but a beast to them.**

I think I have the rest have their English bits next to them.

Okays, I've had the flu for about a week now, and have been kind of incapacitated, so I will blame that for my lack of updates with Runners and Charcoal & Scars. I will try to get to that soon.

I LOVE YOU ALL! Everyone's support on my series Of Freckles and Silver is greatly appreciated, and it means so much to me that people are actually reading them. I'd put a heart here if fanfic didn't remove the greater-than symbol.

Ciao for now,

~Webs


	2. When Cuffs Are Changed, Pity is Given

You don't know why he's here. You don't know why he talks to you. You don't know why he comes into the hall everyday, and everyday without fail, says good morning. You cannot fathom the reason as to why he holds legitimate conversations in the two hours from his arrival to the time your exhibit opens. You don't have a clue as to why he smiles in your direction. You're completely and utterly terrified that you don't mind. _Vous ne me dérange pas du tout._

He was wary of you the first few weeks, and you could hardly blame him: You're a fucking human with wings, with a reputation for attacking your keepers. You're not even going to mention how pointy your teeth are, or your crimson eyes, because that stuff just confuses you even more about why he's sticking around.

It's been two months since Sollux (though you still fondly refer to him as "Thollux") started working the morning shift, and you've talked more in the past six weeks more than you have in the past eight years. Your voice is still raw from under-use, and you wonder if you've permanently damaged it by remaining silent for so long.

You get self-conscious when you talk, you always have, but Sollux doesn't seem to notice. You had toned back your usual snark at first so as not to put him off, but by week three you realized he was just as full of shit as you are. Now, you have no qualms about curse-ridden banter fests between the two of you, and actually really enjoy them. Who wouldn't?

You look forward to the mornings, in that two-hour window, because Sollux doesn't treat you like an animal. Around him, you're not a beast pacing behind gold bars; you're just a human being with very unfortunate know he pities you, but he doesn't show it often, and for that you're grateful.

You've never appreciated pity, ever since you were a kid. Pity just got people hurt.

* * *

_You don't run. You flat-out __**sprint**__, wings poking through your tattered, bloody jacket. You know you're leaving a trail of your unnaturally-bright red blood for your pursuers to follow, but you don't slow your pace over the clean cobblestones. You race through the winding, immaculate alleyways, flapping your wings every now and then to give you an extra boost, though this movement tugs at the gash cutting into your shoulder-blades. You avoid public areas, crowded streets, because if anyone else saw you..._

_You shudder, then yelp as a stone flies past your head, hitting a flower pot and shattering it. You jerk your head over your shoulder, stomach clenching at the sight of six very large men barreling in your direction._

_You force back the bile in your throat, and keep running. Just a little more. You just have to make it to your home, __**votre maison**__. Because father is there, and mother is there, and they'll know what to do._

_You use your superior agility to stay ahead of your adversaries, skillfully finding your way towards your home in the middle-district. Your father is a well-off carpenter, so your family has a large-ish home, with a guard at the gate; he would be able to handle these men, right?_

_But you're still relatively far away when you feel the first hand take a swipe at you, barely missing. You let out a screech, and dive down an alley; a bad move. You had hoped it would wind away into narrow passages like the alleys did by the port, but this one dead-ends. This one stops not fifty feet from the main road, and you find yourself pressed against the stone wall, watching the men who'd seen your wings approach, eyes blurry with tears._

_"G-G-Gamz-zee..." You whimper, cringing away from the hand flying for your head. Just before it reaches you, you scream. "GAMZEE!"_

_"What're you doing to my lil' bro?" Your head jerks up at the dangerous, husky voice, staring in disbelief as your lithe big brother drops down from the roof behind you, landing in front of you with ease and effectively shielding you from view. __**Frère**__!_

_"Get out of the way, peasant." One of your attackers hisses, but Gamzee narry casts him a glance. He instead turns towards you, kneeling down in front of you before lifting you into his arms. You cling to him like a koala-cub, balling into his pristine cotton shirt. His hands flit over the wounds already inflicted upon you, the cuts and scratches from rocks, the malevolent slice between your wings made in an attempt to cut them from your back._

_Gamzee slowly stands, then shifts around on heel, shooting a death-glare towards the man that had almost hit you, and you swear you saw the fucker cringe._

_"You'll motherfucking pay for this." He growls, and you're positive in the assumption that you heard a whimper from one of the other men._

_Then Gamzee whips around and leaps over the wall with ease, holding you close to his chest as he vaults away._

_Things get fuzzy and black around this part, and you don't remember much until you see Gamzee stumbling towards you as you sit huddled at the end of another alley._

_You cry out and leap to your feet, rushing to your brother. You barely manage to catch him before he tumbles to the ground, and you're immediately soaked with the deep-crimson blood spilling from the open gash across his ribs, the sight bringing a fresh wave of tears._

_"Gamzee, I'm so sorry!" You wail, helping him sit against the wall, and he just chuckles softly, carding his fingers through your crazy mop._

_"'T's okay, Karbro. I'm fine."_

_"You're __**not**__ fine!" You sob, useless, clumsy hands trying to staunch the blood. "Mon frère, ne meurt pas! Don't die, brother!" Panic wells up inside you, fear nearly choking you when he smiles his lopsided grin and pulls you into a tight hug. You feel his breath shortening, his skin growing colder and colder. "Don't leave me, Gamzee!"_

_"Shh, I said it's okay, motherfucker." He whispers hoarsely, rubbing slow circles on your back. "Karbro, you can find your way home, can't you?" You don't want to, but you nod in confirmation. "Good, because you need to go there, okay? Tell mum and dad what h-happened." The end of his sentence is greeted with a very wet-sounding cough, and you clutch at him tighter. "O-Okay, Karbro?"_

_"I'm not leaving you here! Gamzee, you have to come back with me! Vous devez venir avec moi!" He coughs again, and you feel something wet and sticky hit your neck. You cringe, but don't move._

_"Don't worry 'bout me, okay? You need a motherfuckin' smile on that little angel face." You shake your head vigorously._

_"No!"_

_"Hey, Karbro. Je t'aime." You weren't prepared for that. You all but scream, beating your little fists weakly against him. The fucker just repeats that over, and over, and over again, like a song whispered in your ear._

_"If you love me, why are you leaving?! Pourquoi?!"_

_"Shit, lil' bro, if I had it my way, we'd live forever. But miracles like that don't happen, so just remember: Je t'aime. Je t'aime, je t'aime, je t'aime."_

_"Je ne vous aime pas!"_

_"Aw, you don't mean that. 'Course you love me."_

_"No! Je ne vous aime pas! Je ne sais pas!" This is your fault; you're the reason Gamzee is bleeding to death in an alley, with only a sobbing little brother to keep him company as he slips out of the world._

* * *

You awake, crying out. A full-blown scream nearly escapes your throat as you jolt out of your nest, body hitting the metal floor with a slap.

You lay there for long minutes, regaining normal breathing patterns and fighting back tears. No, thinking about that night is one of the last things you want to do. That was, what, seventeen years ago, wasn't it? It shouldn't still hurt this much. It shouldn't still feel like someone is ripping your insides out of you.

Oh shit, you're shaking like you're having a fucking seizure and sweat drips off your forehead like you've just run a marathon. It's dark in the hall, alerting you to the early hour, but you have no clock to check the exact time. As you lay there, you realize you don't care, and that your ankles are bleeding from the jesses rubbing against them painfully.

It isn't long before tears are forcing themselves past your eyelids, and you genuinely hope Sollux doesn't arrive any time soon.

* * *

"'Morning, KK." You don't respond to Sollux's greeting, rather just stare at the trencher cupped in your hands, completely untouched. "KK, you okay?"

"I'm fine." You glance over at him, and know he's unconvinced. But he lets it slide, and you send him a silent thank-you for it; he knows when to back off.

You watch him as he goes about his morning chores, hoping your eyes aren't red or puffy, but know it's a slim chance. Maybe you can pass it off as a cold or something? But no. You've never been sick in your entire life; probably some freak side effect in your genes. No one would believe you if you tried to play it sick.

Once Sollux is done lighting the lamps, he returns to your cage and settles on the marble step that rings the exhibit and keeps the base of your cage a foot off the ground. You always lean against the gold mesh on the inside, and Sollux will settle next to you on the outside, shoulders almost touching. It's all part of the now-familiar routine you two have built for yourselves.

"Tho, anything interethting happen after I left yethterday?" Sollux inquires, crossing his arms lazily across his chest.

"Not really." Is your simple answer.

"Oh. That'th good, I gueth." You can almost hear his frown. "KK, are you alright?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" He shifts a bit uncomfortably.

"I don't know, you're jutht tho... calm. It'th weird." Well, he'd be pretty reserved too if he had a nightmare about his brother's death the night before, subsequently could not fall back asleep, and is now running on three hours of rest.

"Can we please change the subject?"

"Um, yeah. Thure." You both fall awkwardly silent, and your empty stomach churns in remembrance of the terror of rewatching Gamzee bleed to death. "Hey, KK?"

"Mm?"

"Why aren't you fighting?"

"What?" You turn in surprise.

"Why aren't you... fighting, trying to find a way to ethcape. I would be, if I were in your plathe." Did you just sense a hint of pleading in his voice?

You exhale slowly, pushing away thoughts of Gamzee and wrapping your arms loosely around your knees, leaning your head back against the mesh. "Well, it's not like I have anything to go back to." He falls silent, and you hear his fingers drumming the marble step.

"Oh. Um, can I athk why?" You sigh through your nose and rub a hand over your face. You trust Sollux more than you've trusted anyone in a long time, but maybe not _that_ much.

"No, I would prefer it if you _didn't_ ask." It would be today that he brings up your past home, with pain fresh on your mind.

"Oh, okay. Thorry." The two of you elapse into an awkward silence, admittedly not the first in this strange friendship that you've developed with the dirty-blonde guard. You love to surprise him every chance you get with your intelligence. You love to see his masked eyes widen when you use big words, you love to see his lips part when you swear unexpectedly, and this usually results in him falling silent to fidget uncomfortably. "Tho... How long have you had your wingth? Or, am I not allowed to athk that either?"

"Mm, no, it's fine. I was born with them." You stretch a cramp out of your back as you speak, before closing your eyes tiredly; pain from your ankles had kept you up just as much as your dream about Gamzee had.

"Really?" You hear him shift around in interest. "I kind of athumed they were the by-product of thome experiment by the Baroneth." You snort at the ridiculous thought of human experiments.

"Do you seriously think the Baroness is smart enough to do something like that? No, these babies are thanks to a fucking mutation I get from my mother." Whoa, _shit_. After your fucking horrorterror about Gamzee, you actually just brought your mother into this conversation?

"Your... mother?"

"Um, yeah... I don't know much about it. Actually, it's more like I don't remember; it was sixteen years ago." He makes a disgruntled, half-pained noise in the back of his throat.

"You've been here for thixteen yearth?" You let only your eyes flicker to his face, which in contorted into confusion and perhaps a little anger; you don't know. You're fairly good at reading people, but his dicolored shades make it harder by hiding his eyes.

"Not here specifically;" You hear yourself saying. "I've only been here for seven."

"Where were you for the other nine?" You shrug, half happy and half scared of the change in topic; you're glad to have steered clear of your family, but there's nothing stopping Sollux from asking about the time you spent in other places. You don't really want to tell him, because just the thought of some of them bring back painful memories.

You suppress a shudder and ignore the dull pain of an unhealed scar across your ribs; no, your life certainly hasn't been full of puppies and rainbows.

"I've been here and there. Mostly people's animal collections." Something about your lack of sleep seems to make you very talkative. Once you start, you find yourself unable to stop. "Ooh, and there was this traveling zoo I was with for about a year, and the food was fucking brilliant. Then I was owned by this really weird old guy that tried to feed me birdseed the entire time I was there."

"You thpent time, in a... zoo?"

"'Course. If you haven't noticed, people kind of think I'm a savage animal." You think you hear him mutter

"I don't think you're a thavage animal," but you're not sure, so just turn your head away, bringing your knees closer to your chest. "Um, why didn't you jutht tell him you eat normal food?" Sollux inquires into the silence.

"Oh, the fucker hardly knew English. He knew like forty different languages, English and French not included on that list."

"French?" He shifts again. "Ithn't... ithn't that a dead language?" You shrug. Thanks to the Baroness' reign, all kinds of languages stopped being used, French among them. Your mother had always been adamant you and Gamzee be fluent in English as well as French.

"Yeah, I guess. 'Didn't stop my mother from teaching me."

"Theriouthly? Thay thomething then." You chuckle despite your tense shoulders.

"Like what?"

"I don't know..."

"Je ne sais pas."

"You weren't joking."

"Vous ne plaisantaient pas."

"Thtop that, KK." You snicker, wincing a little bit as your jesses are yanked. "You okay?" You nod quickly, hoping he can't see your feet very well, and look for a distraction. You find it: a lamp all the way across the hall that seems to have gone out.

"Lamp out." You say, and Sollux sighs, standing wearily.

"Well, that'th jutht thwell. I gueth I thould go fixth that." He casts you a concerned glance before walking across the length of the hall and setting to work.

You make sure he isn't look when you gingerly shift your feet, biting back swears as the chaffing leather cuts deeper into your skin. You'd stopped the blood hours ago, but they're just as likely to start bleeding now as they were then. You hope Sollux doesn't notice; you really don't feel like explaining to him that you're terrified-

Sollux's work and your thoughts are interrupted by a booming metallic clang, the large door at the other end of the hall bursting open to welcome thirty-or-so soldiers in anonymous suits and masks, all of them charging at your cage.

_N-No!_

You don't have time to do anything but get to your feet before they've thrown aside the door to your cage, your keepers swarming in. You nearly miss Sollux's cry of distress as you're shoved against the opposite side of your cage, one of the largest keepers latching your neck into a collar at the end of a twenty-foot pole, thrusting you off the ground and forcing you up the mesh until the other keepers can reach your feet with ease. Dozens of them drop from the top of the cage, suspended by ropes tied around their waists, and all but attack you as they force your wings back, pressing them against the metal to keep them from hitting anyone.

Their hands, their filthy, grimy, _tainted_ hands pull at your feathers, gripping skin and bone, and it hurts and it feels _wrong_. Wrong, wrong, wrong!

You don't scream, and you don't yell. No, the noises that are coming from your mouth are completely feral, ear-splitting and conveying the violation, the pain of them touching your wings. They pay you no mind, of course, quite content to jab their fingers into membrane, and nerve, and hold you down at the base of your wings, you writhing underneath them.

In their credit, they work quickly, cutting away your old jesses and bandaging up your ankles before putting new ones on, but it doesn't stop you from heaving to and fro, trying to shake them off your wings at the very least. Your shoulders are weak, and your gut is lurching from how _wrong_ it feels, how you feel ravished, violated, raped.

It drags out until you can barely scream anymore, then all at once, it's over.

All the keepers hightail it out of your cage, dropping you unceremoniously to the ground and slamming closed the gold door. Your legs scream in resistance to your harsh landing, and you have no qualms about letting them buckle.

Within seconds, it's just you, curled on the floor, wrapped around yourself as weak cries of pain wrack your chest and hot tears force themselves over your cheeks in burning currents. You do your best to curl your wings back, but they hurt; they're sore and shaky, and you really don't have the mental capacity to deal with them right now, so you let one drape over your body, the other curled against the mesh as tight as it can go. You don't fight back the sobs, even though they scrape against your raw throat, because your exhibit will be closed for the next week; they always do that after they change your jesses.

This is why you suffered through bleeding ankles for weeks, to avoid this, to put it off a little longer.

With all the study they've done on you, they still don't realize your wings are sensitive, are a private part of your body, and touching them is just as violating as when they catalogued every inch of you against your will. They don't realize they're slowly tearing away your sanity, but they know they're slowly making you theirs. You know they know, with their sick expressions when they actually have the balls to remove their stupid masks. You've been here seven years, and they've slowly been stripping away any sense of _you_ that you had.

You are no longer your own.

Your sobs have stopped by now, but not your tears or your trembling. You feel like your mind is shattering, crumbling with every passing second, and nothing can piece it back together.

That's when you feel long, bony fingers nestle themselves into your ratty, sweaty hair, and you whimper, hating yourself for being so weak. Why is Sollux still here? Why hasn't he left? You had expected him to leave as soon as the Keepers got there, as all of the guards are supposed to do. Wh-Why hadn't he...?

You squeeze your eyes shut, listening to the soft sound of Sollux sitting on the step, and unconsciously scoot closer to him. His nimble fingers start carding and out of your tangled locks, and you try to steady your breathing, but as a fresh wave of tears comes, you give up. You loathe yourself when you give up, but something about Sollux's presence makes you feel... safe. And that fucking terrifies you.

You're choking on another sob when you hear Sollux humming. It's a slow, sweet tune, and he weaves his fingers in time with the beat. It's comforting, like a lullaby, and you realize that's probably exactly what it is.

You want to push away from him, and tell him to fuck off, to leave you alone, but you don't. You don't, and you know he pities you now more than ever.

"F-Faire foutre..." You mutter, and Sollux makes no move to tell you he heard you; he continues humming the unknown melody, and your stomach writhes at the thought of what happened to all those who had pitied you.

You don't want Sollux to die. You don't want... you just want him to be here, teach you to remember what comfort is like. But you don't know.

_Vous ne savez pas._

* * *

**A/N**: Okays, so first: Translations (In order of appearance {I've included the ones that have their English bits next to them as well, just to make sure they all make sense to you guys})

Vous ne me dérange pas du tout - **You don't mind at all.**  
Votre maison - **Your home.  
**Frère! - **Brother!****  
**Mon frère, ne meurt pas! - **Brother, don't die!  
**Vous devez venir venir avec moi! - **You have to come come with me!  
**Je t'aime - **I love you.  
**Pourquoi?! - **Why?!  
**Je ne vous aime pas! - **I don't love you!  
**Je ne sais pas! - **I don't!  
**Je ne sais pas - **I don't know. **_(Yes, they're the same.)  
_Vous ne plaisantaient pas - **You weren't joking.  
**F-Faire foutre... -** F-Fuck...** _(In relation to the explictive, and not screwing/shagging/banging {I think this is right, but I'm not sure})  
_Vous ne savez pas - **You just don't know.**

Second: Sorry it's taken me so long to update! Relapsing and school Finals aside, I'm also having trouble getting back into SolKat, because I was an idiot and got into DaveKat -_-'

I really don't like how this chapter came out. I've completely rewritten it three times, and while this is the best of the three, I _can't_ write action scenes, so that's why the flashback and the whole "changing-jesses" thing are complete and utter crap. I sincerely apologize.  
Oh, and in the flashback, KK is... three. It was about a year before he was taken away from his family. I'll go into THAT bit of his past later.

Third: I'll be updating _Charcoal and Scars_ next, and then _Runners_. I would update _Of Freckles and Silver_, but I write those when the muse descends, and it appears the muse is incapable of descending at this current point in time.  
I'll also be updating _69 SolKat Prompts_ over on Archive of Our Own, if any of you are reading that.

Fourth: Again, I swear I had something else to say, but am blanking. I'll edit this if I think of it.

Thank all of you for support! I'm really glad you guys are liking this, because I really love the plot, and wouldn't be writing it if you guys didn't want to read it. so thank you! ^-^

~Webs

Oh yeah, you guys know jesses are leather straps used in hawking and falconry, right? If not... well, now you know XD


	3. AUTHOR'S NOTE (I'm sorry!)

AUTHOR NOTE

I am so sorry this isn't an update, guys, especially 'cause it's been fucking forever since I've done so, but I've run into a problem: I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING. I didn't think this story through AT ALL, and now I have no idea what to do next. So, here's my proposition: IDEAS. GO. AS MANY AS YOU FUCKING CAN, AND I'LL USE EVERY ONE I CAN. Deal?

I really fucking appreciate all the support I've gotten up to this point, from every single one of you, 'cause I honest to god thought no one would like this, and it makes me all warm and bubbly inside that people are liking this ^-^

So, please help, and I'll have the next chapter out as soon as possible!

~Webs


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